


The Composer

by Vanillinzucker



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: 21st Century, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Popstar, I call this the Take That AU, M/M, more characters later - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-17
Updated: 2015-01-16
Packaged: 2018-03-07 21:28:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3183770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vanillinzucker/pseuds/Vanillinzucker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marco Bodt is a college student, a street musician, someone who wants to write music and someone who, just a few days before Christmas, finds a drunk guy in a pub and takes him back home with him.<br/>This is about Pop Music, friends, family and, most of all, crappy pop song lyrics that I tried to work SNK references into.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Composer

**Author's Note:**

> During Christmas Break I was at my parents' and since there are only 300 people living here, most of them over 60, there's nothing much to do. So my Dad and I watched a lot of documentaries. One of them, the one that in fact inspired this thing, was about Take That, Gary Barlow and Robbie Williams (I never bothered to catch up with the rest of them) and how the band split. This fic is based on the idea of that one part of the documentary I watched: Robbie Williams having problems finding a real stand in the music world after the band split up until, one day, a street musician found a drunk Robbie Williams, brought him home to his two sisters and wrote 'Angels' with him (at least the story roughly went like that), thus marking the beginning of Robbie William's solo career. 
> 
> Have Fun!

_But I'm up here holding on_  
 _To all those chandeliers of hope_

_[...]_

_Like some drunken Elvis singing_  
 _I go singing out of tune_

_\- Christmas Lights, Coldplay_

 

* * *

He had the wish to pull up his scarf tighter, to hold back the cold just a bit, but one glance in his guitar case told him that he couldn’t. 

He’d been singing the same Coldplay songs over and over and his hands on the guitar were already getting numb while his case stayed embarrassingly empty. 

Fighting back a sigh, he smiled at the people walking down the street, at a girl that dropped two pounds in the battered up guitar case he’d wanted to replace for a while. He stuck with it - it had emotional value at least. 

The winter was cold, but not cold enough for it to snow. Instead, there was icy rain beating down on his neck, on the portion of it that wasn’t protected by the beanie he’d dragged down as far as possible.

After another round of Christmas Lights, he decided to call it a day. Although the last minute Christmas shopping was still in full commence, he had earned practically nothing. It probably had to do with the fact that the more shoppers were out, the more street musicians tried their luck. 

Not wanting to go home directly, he dragged himself into the nearest pub, rubbing his freezing hands. The guitar case dug into his back as he pulled open the door. A waft of warm air reddened his cheeks as he sat down in a corner that smelled of stale beer and wet, dirty floor. 

He ordered a beer, guessing that the money wasn’t worth much more than that, and shrugged of his jacket. 

„You’re the one whose yammering we heard all evening, son?“ the old bartender said. 

„I’m sorry“ Marco started, flushing a bit.

„Nah, it’s fine. You’re good.“ He gave him a pat on the shoulder, looking at the rumpled banknotes Marco was holding out. „Keep it.“ he said. He put the beer down in front of him, smiling encouragingly. 

„Thanks“ he mumbled, taking a sip. He sat there for a while, taking cautious sips, staring at his phone. There was a missed call from his older sister and a photo from his younger one in a glittery sweater. 

_Looking cute, Anni :)_ he replied. Annika would fume, saying „I’m too old to be called cute, Marco!“ as soon as he came through the door, but the sight of his 12-year-old sister in a pink sweater with glitter randomly thrown all over it and the caption „Let it snow“ written all over it in cheesy font _was_ cute. If a bit tragic, fashion-wise. 

 

He was about to go home when someone opened the door, loudly, with the door bell banging against the wall with a violent jingle.

„We told you not to come in again!“ the bartender said, pushing him a bit back. 

„I- I’m not.“ the guy slurred. Marco didn’t have a good view of the door, it was blocked by a frosted glass wall, but the figure was stumbling a step inwards again. „I’m with s’meone.“

„What was that?“ the broad man asked, leaning in a bit. He didn’t look like he wanted to go violent. 

„That guy“ he said, pointing towards… him. Or at least in Marco’s general direction, through the glass, because his coordination skills seemed a bit upended. 

„Is that true, son?“ The two of them walked - or rather, looking at the guy, dragged - themselves over to his lonely booth.

„Umm“ he didn’t exactly wanted for the bartender to throw the guy, who was only wearing an elbow long cardigan and a band-shirt with a low V-Neck to his converse and jeans, out of the pub, but did he want to lie? Not really. 

He bowed his head in agreement, pulling the guy down onto the bench. „It’s fine.“ He smiled his brightest smile until the bartender left to stand behind the bar again. 

„A beer please!“ the guy yelled as soon as he sat down. 

Marco rolled his eyes, smelling cigarettes and a lot - a _lot_ \- of booze already on him, but he didn’t interfere. 

„Make that two!“ drunk guy called, as an afterthought. 

„I’m fine.“ Marco objected. 

Drunk guy’s glazed light brown eyes bore into him. „It’s on me.“ 

Marco snorted. „Yeah sure.“ He already saw himself paying for his beer and the two drunk guy just ordered. 

„Really.“ he insisted, smiling crookedly. „I’m Jean.“ 

„U-huh. Marco.“ 

The bartender came and brought the beers and as soon as he was out of earshot, Marco asked „What was that about?“ 

„Huh?“ Jean asked, already gulping down a good part of his beer. 

„I don’t know you.“ Marco said. 

„You don’t“ he hiccuped, sounding like he was about to have a good laugh. „You don’t know me. Well“ he said, inclining his head to the other patrons, who said drearily splattered across the pub „Do I look like I know any of these guys?“

„No.“ Marco admitted. Perhaps only the most pathetic people, himself included, spent the free days around Christmas in a pub. Jean didn't look pathetic, just down. 

„I just chose the one who was closest to my age. Makes it more believable.“  

Marco almost choked on his beer. „Believable? What made you think I would even play along?“ 

„‚Twas a shot in the dark, I admit.“ 

For a drunk, Jean seemed remarkably put together, now that he sat. And that was only the case if he was very used to being drunk, Marco thought. It was almost sad - Jean was good-looking and probably close to Marco’s age, so he shouldn’t be throwing anything away. He had a well-kept undercut that looked like he just stepped out of a hairdresser’s despite the horrible weather outside and his clothes were, if not exactly suited for the weather, looking expensive. Jean didn’t look like a sloppy-drunk who stumbles into a mediocre pub to hassle someone. 

„Why did you even go in here? The bartender looked really displeased.“ 

„I was hiding.“ he simply stated. 

„From whom?“ Marco asked, incredulous. Maybe he just had a bad breakup or his parents were on him for the cigarettes and the alcohol. Maybe drugs? Could be anything, he decided. 

Or nothing, as Jean said a second later. 

He had finished his beer and the half of Marco’s first one in the time it took Marco to drink half of his glass. 

 

Jean looked restless, his fingers twitching on the coasters and his legs crossing and uncrossing under the table. „I’ll go look if the coast is clear.“ he said, standing up. Searching for steadiness, he grabbed the edge of the table before attempting to walk out. Marco looked at the money on the table - a bit too much for just two beers - and stared for a moment before he grabbed his jacket and guitar case and ran after him, shouting a goodbye to the bartender. 

Marco, even when he was trying his best, couldn’t leave Jean to wander the streets in his haze. 

„Hey, wait!“ he called, looking down the street to find Jean leaning against a closed jeweler’s shop, smoking a cigarette. The smoke curled up and mixed with the air he was breathing out, creating a dense fog in front of his face. Under the dim street lights, he looked vaguely familiar, though Marco couldn’t place where from. 

 

„Where are you going?“ he inquired as he walked up to him. 

Jean shrugged. „What’s it to you?“ 

„What’s it to - I could never forgive myself if you froze yourself to death out here!“ he exclaimed in outrage. 

„Why? You said you don’t know me.“ Jean was grinding out the cigarette with his Converse now, looking at Marco indifferently. 

„That’s no excuse to let someone in your state walk in the streets alone.“ 

„I’m fine.“ he insisted. 

„No, you’re not. You’re drunk and you don’t even have a jacket.“ He shrugged of his jacket, handing it to him. Marco would be fine without it, he was still wearing three layers of sweaters and T-Shirts, per his sister’s request. 

Jean looked lost for a moment, then put on the jacket. It was too loose and a bit big on him, since he was shorter and a lot scrawnier than Marco. 

„Thanks.“ he mumbled. 

„Now come on.“ Marco said, taking his elbow. 

„Where are you going?“ Jean asked.

„Home.“ he said. „And I’m taking you.“ 

„Why?“ he asked, brown eyes puzzled. 

„Because you don’t look like you have a place for tonight and I’m not leaving you here on the street. It’s Christmas.“

Jean shrugged, probably accepting his fate. 

„Now we can take the Tube“ he pointed to the station nearby „Or we can walk. Your choice.“ 

„N-not the underground, please.“ Jean looked distressed for a moment. 

„Are you claustrophobic or something?“ he asked. Annika had that problem, but she was working hard on getting over it. A few seconds passed until Jean nodded. 

 

They walked on for a while. It wasn’t far to his place, but he sure was starting to feel the cold through his sweaters. Jean dragged his feet, staring intently at the ground as they walked along the street. „Are you alright?“ Marco asked when the silence became too uncomfortable for his liking.

„I’m fine.“ Jean said, once again. 

„Are you sure you won’t have to puke?“ 

„I’m not _that_ drunk.“ he snorted. „Besides, will you stop asking me these questions? You’re not my mother.“ 

„Rude.“ Marco muttered under his breath, turning away from Jean’s face. 

 

Soon, they arrived in Marco’s street. It was dark and the light only came from the lit decorations in the windows - the street lamps were busted by a few kids weeks ago and hadn’t been replaced ever since. When Marco was scrambling for his keys, then remembered they were in his jacket’s pockets and manhandled Jean, the scrawny man asked „Are you sure this is necessary? I’m really fine. Walking cleared my head.“ 

„I insist.“ he said, turning the key to the small house around „You don’t have anywhere to go to right now, do you?“ 

„No, I don’t.“ 

„Then come in.“ Marco said, opening his door with a grand gesture. Jean scrambled in, toeing of his Converse. He looked at his wristwatch, one his father used to wear - the brown leather band had scuff marks all over it. Judging from the time, his sisters would be in bed by now. The house was completely silent and dark, the only light coming from the string of lights wrapped around the Christmas tree. 

 

Marco, Jean in tow, walked into their small living room. „We don’t have a guest room, but you can take the couch if you want to.“ He set down his guitar next to said couch. 

„You really don’t have to…“

„Yes, I do.“ he heaped all of their decorative pillows and blankets onto the big couch, motioning for Jean to sit. He did - surrounded by all the pillows he looked a bit forlorn, so he sat down next to him, painfully aware of how close they were now.

At a loss, Marco started to babble: „Umm, feel free to use the bathroom, it’s upstairs and, uh, if you want clothes to sleep in I can lend you some, my sister is going to be up early but you don’t have to get up then - I never do. Oh, and please, don’t run away before breakfast.“ He said that, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

Jean cleared his throat „I, uh, won’t. And my clothes are just fine, thank you.“ 

„Don’t be alarmed by loud music in the morning, I might add.“ 

„Music?“

Marco shrugged „I’m sorry in advance. My sister’s in a phase. She’s into that Top 100 pop band, _Wall Maria_ , especially the last album.“ That was a bit of a cop-out - she’d been full on fangirl, that damned CD playing up and down everyday of the winter holiday. 

„ _Wall Maria_ , really?“ Jean asked, sounding a bit pained.

„Yeah. Sometimes she’ll put on that new single, though. She pretends they’re not split, so don’t mention it. She has a crush on that one guy, Eren what’s-his-face? He’s plastered all over her walls.“ The (admittedly handsome) idol’s face covered almost every inch of her pink paint, which she didn’t like from the start. 

It was only one of a lot of misguided things his father had done in his time. Marco still remembered Annika’s barely repressed disappointment. With 6, she was barely reached their father’s waist, so she looked up at him with questioning eyes saying „I thought you were going to paint it blue?“ 

His father patted her head, saying „I thought this was a lovely color for you, princess.“

14-year-old Marco had gritted his teeth, saying nothing. Now, 6 years later, he gritted his teeth at the thought that the pink wall was one of the few things showing that his father had even been here at one point. 

 

„Jäger.“ Jean said, after the silence had stretched a bit too long. „His name’s Eren Jäger. And that single is one huge ball of sap.“ 

Marco laughed „Not as bad as the other one’s though.“ 

„You think so?“ Jean asked, thoughtfully. 

„Hm-hm.“ he hummed in agreement. 

Celia, after hearing the single one time too often while she was standing behind her cash desk, tried to ban _Wall Maria_ and all the appendices that followed after the split, but could she permanently deny her youngest sibling’s passion? Of course not. So the CD’s just kept playing until Marco rather stood on the street hearing other people’s bad rendition of ‚Life outside the Walls‘ - a pretty bad wordplay on the former band’s name, in Marco’s opinion - than listening to the pop star belting it himself. 

Marco yawned, almost hitting Jean with his elbow. „I guess I should go to bed.“ He smiled at him, getting a weird mixture of a frown and slightly upturned corners of his mouth in return. 

„Good night.“ Jean said quietly. „Thanks for letting me stay over.“ 

„It’s no problem. Besides, my big sister would kick me if she knew I let you walk away without a place to stay the night.“ he bit his lip „If you have any problems or need something, my room’s the first to the right upstairs.“ Without a word further, he turned around, so Jean wouldn’t see the blush on his face. 

_My room’s_ … Why on earth did he have to say that? Really smooth, Bodt. First bring a drunk stranger over, then tell him where your room is. Geez. 

 

He crept up the stairs, careful so no one would wake up, closed his door silently and threw himself onto his bed. Without changing into his sleeping clothes or even brushing his teeth, he fell asleep.

 

The rising sun hit his face through the blinds he’d forgotten to close the night before, shaking him awake at - he glanced at the angry red numbers on his alarm clock - an ungodly time. He contemplated drawing the blinds and going back to bed for a minute before he decided that he wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep either way. Instead, he walked into the bathroom and took a lengthy shower that made him almost alert enough to act like a human being. When he reemerged after getting dressed, he heard the distant hiss of their old coffee machine and shuffled down the stairs. 

 

„Good morning!“ Celia smiled at him from behind the kitchen counter. 

„Morning.“ he grumbled. His sister set a mug of coffee in front of him, smelling amazingly strong and black. He took a sip. 

„How was your day?“ he asked. Celia had a few days off work, so she was staying at home with Annika, who had a school break. 

„Good. We made cookie dough so we can bake the cookies today.“ The winter break of Marco’s university had begun two days ago and they had decided to make the cookies when all of them were at home. 

„I’ve got to say, though“ Celia said, pointing towards the living room „That your day was probably more interesting than mine.“ 

He blushed. „Is it okay that I brought him here?“ 

„Of course.“ she smiled. His sister was five years older than him - she had studied animation, but because she had to care for Annika and hadn’t had much time to search for a job that met her qualifications, she worked in a department store. While Annika and him looked much like their mother, tan skin, freckles and dark brown hair, Celia looked like their father - she was tall, in fact she had at least two or three centimeters on Marco, and blonde. They all had the same brown eyes, though.

 

Sipping on her own coffee, she added „I have to ask - do you actually know him?“

He shook his head. „Actually, I kind of picked him up at the pub.“ 

„I wouldn’t have pegged you the type for that, Marco.“ She winked.

Marco ran a hand through his hair, tensing a bit. 

„Relax“ she said, laughing „It was a joke. But do tell me the story.“ 

 

While he told the story, Annika ran down the stairs, loud as always, bursting into the kitchen. „Morning Marco! Morning Celia!“ she said, grabbing a bowl of cornflakes. 

„Don’t choke on your breakfast, Anni“ he said smiling. Her hair was one hasty movement away from being soaked in milk. 

„Can you put on my CD, please, Celia?“ she asked, giving her puppy eyes over the rim of her bowl. Celia, ever patient, put on the old, battered CD player. 

„Thank you!“ Annika beamed, chewing loudly. 

 

Hearing the music, he scrunched up his nose. 

„Don’t we have any other CD you want to hear?“ he asked. Bloody _Wall Maria_ was really starting to exasperate him. If he had to hear the words _My hearts in your basement / I won’t get it back unless you give me the key_ one more time, he was going to smash the CD player something fierce. 

And if heard Eren Jäger yell _I’ll show you the ocean / The sky there goes on forever just like our love_ , his voice sounding coarse and forceful even in a supposedly tender love song, his eardrums would never recover again. 

 

His sister had no mercy though, turning up the volume so much louder that he glared holes into her. He sighed. At least she wasn’t singing along this time, just humming a bit. 

As soon as she finished her cereal, she hopped off her chair, ripping open the living room door. „I’ll watch a bit of TV.“ 

Before her announcement was finished, Celia stood up. 

„Anni, wait, you’ll wake-“ There was some grumbling and a dreary looking Jean appeared in the doorway, looking very disheveled. „him“ she concluded. 

„Do you want coffee?“ Marco asked. Jean didn’t react, too fixated on the CD player still blaring god-awful sounds into the kitchen. He blinked a few times. 

„I’m sorry… Marco, did you say something?“ he yawned, stretching a bit. His shirt hiked up far enough for him to see a toned stomach and just a hint of a wispy happy trail. Suddenly, his coffee cup was a lot more interesting than before. Mainly to hide his blush. 

 

„Coffee?“ he asked when he looked up again. Celia poured him a mug before giving him an inquisitive look. 

„I’m Celia.“ she said in the end, shaking his hand over the kitchen table. 

„Jean.“ he said, his half-smile in place again. „Nice to meet you. And thanks for letting me stay.“ 

„It’s no problem.“ she said. That was typical: When Celia said that, Jean’s smile reached his eyes and when he said it, it just sounded like he was at a loss for words. 

Jean quietly sipped his coffee, still looking battered. 

 

„Marco-o!“ his little sister shrieked, almost louder than the CD playing from their battered player,  making them all flinch.  She was standing in the door, gaping at Jean. 

She pointed a finger and for once, no words came out of her mouth. 

He watched her open and close her mouth like a fish before finally asking „Why is Jean Kirschtein sitting at our kitchen table?“ 

„Who?“ he asked, his brain not quite functioning yet. He glanced to his right - Jean was scraping his neck, his eyes cast down in distress. 

 

„You’re Jean Kirschtein!“ Annika yelled after the lack of response from Marco’s side. Almost screamed. 

Jean shrugged. „I guess I am.“ He had managed to look up from his mug, but just barely. 

Marco looked at Celia, who smiled widely. „How could you not notice?“ 

„Not notice what?“ he asked, getting irritated now. His little sister was hyperventilating, his big sister smiling in a way Marco had seen her smiling at her last girlfriend and between them, Jean looked at the kitchen door as if to see if there was a portal opening to another dimension anytime soon. 

He raised a questioning eyebrow at Jean. 

„Oh for god’s sake“ his older sister jibed. „Jean Kirschtein? You ought to know him. We listened to that damned CD for a million times.“ She rolled her eyes at the still awestruck Anni, who seemed glued to that exact cracked kitchen tile she first stepped on. 

Marco looked back and forth between the CD player and the paling Jean, drawing the connection. 

He tried to calculate the exact possibility of finding a celebrity with a net worth of 20 Million Pounds in a rundown pub in his head and found that it was quite possibly about as likely as winning the lottery. 

 

„Hey, Anni“ he said, tapping his little sister’s shoulders „if you go get your phone, I’m sure Jean would have no problem taking a picture with you.“

She was running up the stairs faster than light, yelling „No one’s ever going to believe me!“ 

 

„Why didn’t you tell me?“ he asked carefully, looking at Jean. 

„Because you would have believed a drunk guy in a pub telling you he’s famous“ he snorted „Yeah, sure.“

Marco shrugged. „You could have at least said something when I insulted your single.“

This time, Jean’s smile at him wasn’t half-assed. „Oh, insult it all you want. I hate it too.“ After a pause, he added. „Bloody Jäger beat me again.“  

„He definitely beats you at the level of sap in the lyrics“ Marco laughed. After a second, Jean laughed, too. „I guess you’re right. Who cares that your little sister likes Eren more than me, huh?“ 

„I’m sure if you look at her wall, there’s a few photos of you, too. If you’re so vain“ he raised his eyebrows to question him.

Jean’s handsome face twisted in a frown. „I’m not vain, I just hit a dead end. If even the preteens like Jäger more than me, than maybe I really am no good in singing and songwriting, just like he said.“ His shoulders slumped and Marco had the urge to comfort him, to put a hand on his shoulders. Of course he didn’t - he was sure that Jean wouldn’t appreciate it. 

„If it helps“ Celia said, hesitating „I do think your voice at least transports the emotion behind the lyrics better than Eren. He _is_ better at writing catchy tunes, though. That is why you were good together, in the band.“

Jean turned his head, intrigue playing over his face. „So you’re saying I need a better composer?“ 

„Not necessarily. I think you should…“ 

They never got to hear what Jean should do, since Annika chose that moment to come back into the kitchen, phone in hand. It was Marco’s old flip phone, one that was very in-style when he was in 8th grade, and she pushed it into his hands.

 

Jean turned towards her, a sincere smile on his face. „Before we start taking photos, I should really introduce myself.“ He took her hand while her eyes widened comically. „I’m Jean Kirschtein.“ 

„A-Annika Bodt.“ she stammered. 

„I’m very pleased to meet you.“ he winked. 

Jean shot a quick look at Marco, who bit his lip to stop him from blushing again. Without success. 

_So you find him attractive, Bodt, big deal. So does the rest of Britain, a good portion of the world and their moms. Aim big, why don’t you, Marco? Christ!_

 

While Jean and Annika were posing, he snapped pictures of dozens of ridiculous poses, one particularly bad where Anni requested him to hold her up, ballroom dance style, while she spread her arms. 

Marco half-heartedly protested, not sure if that pose would be worse for his chubby little sister or the weedy stature of Jean. On the modeled pictures and posters he’d always looked a bit more broad-shouldered, his shoulder-hip ratio closer to the Dorito-shape that was considered a good male form right now. Jean did have muscles, he probably had to train for all that choreography-boy-group things, but without people photoshopping him, he looked more like a pre-transformation Chris Evans as Captain America than the result. He was also slightly shorter than Marco, who himself was only average-sized.

 

Still the ridiculous pose commenced, Jean holding up his sister without complaint.

„Come on, Celia, you have to be in the next picture as well“ Annika urged. 

Celia stood beside them and they took an average, smiling photo, Jean in the middle with his arms wrapped around both of them. 

„Can I stop playing paparazzi now?“ Marco asked. The phone’s memory was probably about to burst. 

„We need to take one with you two first.“ Celia said, even though Marco protested „Since you were the one who brought him here.“ 

Annika dragged him away from his former position on the chair and next to Jean, who pointedly looked away from his face. 

„You’ve got to put an arm around him, too!“ Anni said, poking Jean at the side. It was amazing what a few pictures could do to open her up. 

Jean, without looking at him, wrapped an arm around his shoulder, while Marco blushed fiercely. What was it that made him act like a nervous virgin? He was by _no means_ a nervous virgin! He wanted his reflexes to stay in check, if only for the two minutes this photo would need. But since there was no mercy for him, Jean decided to turn his head the exact same minute he did, they looked at each other - and the cell phone clicked. 

 Jean took a step back, picking at his jeans. 

„Do you want to stay for the rest of the day?“ Marco mumbled. His gaze was locked on his striped socks. To his surprise, he saw Jean bow his head. „I would love to. It’s just like you said - I don’t really have anywhere to go right now.“ 

Marco looked up. „That’s ridiculous. I mean you are-“ he stopped when he noticed the pained expression on Jean’s face. 

„You’re serious.“ 

„I am.“ 

 

He hesitated for a second, searching for something to say. Something witty that one could say to a lonely pop star who had nowhere to go to on Christmas and felt that his career had hit a dead end. 

Before anything of substance could leave his mouth, his sister had grabbed Jean’s arm and said: 

„Then you’ll bake cookies with us!“ 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading this!   
> I still have to figure out how my formatting on Pages translates to the formatting here, so that's why it may look a bit botched here. Anyway, I hoped you enjoyed it and may forgive me if I made mistakes, because it was late and English is not my native language. 
> 
> P.S.: Say hi to me on [tumblr! ](http://www.mynightwithvangogh.tumblr.com)  
> 


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